[hear the author read this piece by clicking this link.]

Dream of the attic. Light pours through a lonely window. Everywhere crevices. A pool of old rain. You say, where there is water there are wolves. Spiders are drawn to piles of skin. Attics are lovely in the morning, though. Whatever wolves are lurking must be ghosts, I think. Sun trying its damnedest to break through ceiling. Your candle glows like dandelions. The sun plays spiderwebs like violins. You say, where there are wolves a spider glows. I hear, where there are wolves a spider ghosts. The spiders hang from the dream’s rafters. They ghost on lines the sun makes real.

Dream of spiders. Their bodies drop like teardrops. You catch them in your candle’s flame. Whatever cries are shed are soundless. You say, where there is pain. I catch a spider on my tongue. Sharp as dandelion greens. The only ghosts I sense are passing. A violin might keep them here. You say, where there are violins a spider knows better. I hear, where there are dandelions an attic grows wetter. I feel old rain between my toes. The sun goes down. Your candle blows out. Nothing but your voice now: where there is water there are wolves. Dark makes them real. I pray for ghosts.